She's Running From Her Fears
by wildly-wrathful
Summary: Sometimes Leah thinks maybe Emily wasn't destined to be with Sam. SamLeah


**She's Running From Her Fears **- _Sam/Leah_

**A/N: **I'm a new Sam/Leah shipper. Something about how doomed their relationship is makes me want to hug them both, then get them back together. We all know Sam really loves Leah. After all, he _chose_ Leah; he couldn't help imprinting on Emily.

I'm thinking about adding to this, but I haven't decided yet. Let me know what you think! :D

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When Emily dies, no one knows what to do. It's not like she was young; she was forty-six years old. But it's not like she was old, either. It takes everybody by surprise that she died by something as normal as a car accident.

And Leah doesn't know what to do. What to feel. She wants to cry, to regret not being there for her over the years, for holding onto the grudge of Sam leaving her for Emily. It's not like it was Emily's fault. It wasn't, of course it wasn't. Or Sam's (but Leah would rather have shoots of bamboo pushed underneath her fingernails than to ever admit that).

But she can't quite regret keeping her distance from her cousin. She loved Sam, with all her heart and soul. Maybe Sam imprinting on Emily ripped that love for her out of him, but it didn't work that way for her. Knowing she wasn't destined for him, that her cousin, _her best friend_, was, hurt more than if it had been a complete stranger. Watching them through the years, even as it slowly became easier, still never lost it's painful edge.

Sometimes Leah thinks maybe Emily wasn't destined to be with Sam. Maybe there was something in their genetic makeup that made Sam imprint on Emily, but it didn't mean they were fated to be with each other.

After all, Sam and Emily's relationship had never been easy. First there was the "bear attack." Then Emily's medical issues, eventually concluding with her unable to have children (and if _that_ isn't a sign that they aren't made for each other, Leah doesn't know what is. Imprinting is, afterall, supposed to choose the person best to help carry on the werewolf line).

She wishes she would just imprint on somebody, erase every little feeling she has left for Sam. A tiny part wishes for it to happen to get back at Sam; to say, _I'm over you, I'm not pining after you, I _hate _you_.

She spends her days, weeks, months afterward Emily's death, human. She doesn't phase, doesn't _think_ about phasing, because she doesn't want the pack knowing her thoughts right now. And she can't stop thinking about everything, about Sam and Emily, and the past. She finds the months without phasing surprisingly painful. As much as she used to hate being a werewolf, the being so out-of-control and being the only female in the pack, and most of all having her choices stolen from her, she has kind of grown to like it over the years. She likes running, the air rushing through her fur, the enhanced smell, the better sight.

Simply, she _likes _what she is now. She likes _who_ she is now. The wolf, with all it's cons (the pack sharing thoughts, the imprinting), has helped her come to terms with everything. She loves Sam. Twenty-eight years since they broke up, and she loves him still. It's hard not to, even when he still treats her like she's one of the guys, and only ever demands things of her, expecting to her to obey. But she also realizes she has moved on.

At least until he shows up at her door, looking exactly the same as he did when he showed up to dump her years earlier. His hands are shoved down his pockets, head bent down, and tears running down his cheeks.

"Sam."

He looks up, and she's lost. She hates (_loves_) him so much. She doesn't want him to do this to her again. She doesn't want to be a replacement to him, to be replacing _Emily_. Not to Sam.

"Leah." His voice breaks. Looking into his eyes, she can't help but cross over to him, and hug him. He holds her tight in his arms. "_Leah_." He sighs.

She can't help but hold on tight, too.

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**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Please review! Feedback is always appreciated.


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